Read Online Dreaming Jewels by Theodore Sturgeon - Free Book Online
Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
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the rest, in the earnest, slap-dash way peculiar to carnies.
The show was a flat-car rig now, with press-agents and sky-sweeping searchlights, a dance pavilion and complicated, epicyclic rides. A national magazine had run a long picture story on the outfit, with emphasis on its “Strange People” (“Freak Show” being an unpopular phrase.) There was a press office now, and there were managers, and annual re-bookings from big organizations. There were public-address systems for the bally-platforms, and newer—not new, but newer—trailers for the personnel.
The Maneater had long since abandoned his mind-reading act, and, increasingly, was a presence only to those working on the lot. In the magazine stories, he was a “partner,” if mentioned at all. He was seldom interviewed and never photographed. He spent his working hours with his staff, and stalking about the grounds, and his free time with his books and his rolling laboratory and his “Strange People.” There were stories of his being found in the dark hours of the morning, standing in the breathing blackness with his hands behind him and his gaunt shoulders stooped, staring at Gogol in his tank, or peering over the two-headed snake or the hairless rabbit. Watchmen and animal men had learned to keep away from him at such times; they withdrew silently, shaking their heads, and left him alone.
“Thank you, Zena.” The Maneater’s tone was courtly, mellow.
Zena smiled tiredly, closed the door of the trailer against the blackness outside. She crossed to the chrome and plastic-web chair by his desk and curled up with her robe tucked over her toes. “I’ve had enough sleep,” she said.
He poured wine—shimmering Moselle. “An odd hour for it,” he offered, “but I know you like it.”
She took the glass and set it on the corner of the desk. She waited. She had learned to wait.
“I found some new ones today,” said the Maneater. He opened a heavy mahogany box and lifted a velvet tray out of it. “Mostly young ones.”
“That’s good,” said Zena.
“It is and it isn’t,” said Monetre irascibly. “They’re easier to handle—but they can’t do as much. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.”
“So do I,” said Zena.
She thought his eyes moved to her and away in their deep sockets, but she couldn’t be sure. He said, “Look at these.”
She took the tray on her lap. There were eight crystals lying on the velvet, gleaming dully. They had been freshly cleaned of the layer of dust, like dried mud, that always covered them when they were found—the layer that made them look like clods, like stones. They were not quite translucent, yet the nucleus could be seen by one who knew just what internal hovering shadow to look for.
Zena picked one up and held it to the light. Monetae grunted, and she met his gaze.
“I was wondering which one you would pick up first,” he said. “That one’s very alive.” He took it from her and stared at it, narrowing his eyes. The bolt of hatred he aimed at it made Zena whimper. “Please don’t…”
“Sorry… but it screams so,” he said softly, and put it back with the others. “If I could only understand how they think,” he said. “I can hurt them. I can direct them. But I can’t talk to them. But some day I’ll find out…”
“Of course,” said Zena, watching his face. Was he going to have another of his furies? He was due for one…
He slumped into his chair, put his clasped hands between his knees and stretched. She could hear his shoulders crackle. “They dream,” he said, his organ voice dwindling to an intense whisper. “That’s as close to describing them as I’ve come yet. They dream.”
Zena waited.
“But their dreams live in our world—in our kind of reality. Their dreams are not thoughts and shadows, pictures and sounds like ours. They dream in flesh and sap, wood and bone and blood. And sometimes their dreams aren’t finished, and so I have a cat with two legs, and a
The show was a flat-car rig now, with press-agents and sky-sweeping searchlights, a dance pavilion and complicated, epicyclic rides. A national magazine had run a long picture story on the outfit, with emphasis on its “Strange People” (“Freak Show” being an unpopular phrase.) There was a press office now, and there were managers, and annual re-bookings from big organizations. There were public-address systems for the bally-platforms, and newer—not new, but newer—trailers for the personnel.
The Maneater had long since abandoned his mind-reading act, and, increasingly, was a presence only to those working on the lot. In the magazine stories, he was a “partner,” if mentioned at all. He was seldom interviewed and never photographed. He spent his working hours with his staff, and stalking about the grounds, and his free time with his books and his rolling laboratory and his “Strange People.” There were stories of his being found in the dark hours of the morning, standing in the breathing blackness with his hands behind him and his gaunt shoulders stooped, staring at Gogol in his tank, or peering over the two-headed snake or the hairless rabbit. Watchmen and animal men had learned to keep away from him at such times; they withdrew silently, shaking their heads, and left him alone.
“Thank you, Zena.” The Maneater’s tone was courtly, mellow.
Zena smiled tiredly, closed the door of the trailer against the blackness outside. She crossed to the chrome and plastic-web chair by his desk and curled up with her robe tucked over her toes. “I’ve had enough sleep,” she said.
He poured wine—shimmering Moselle. “An odd hour for it,” he offered, “but I know you like it.”
She took the glass and set it on the corner of the desk. She waited. She had learned to wait.
“I found some new ones today,” said the Maneater. He opened a heavy mahogany box and lifted a velvet tray out of it. “Mostly young ones.”
“That’s good,” said Zena.
“It is and it isn’t,” said Monetre irascibly. “They’re easier to handle—but they can’t do as much. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.”
“So do I,” said Zena.
She thought his eyes moved to her and away in their deep sockets, but she couldn’t be sure. He said, “Look at these.”
She took the tray on her lap. There were eight crystals lying on the velvet, gleaming dully. They had been freshly cleaned of the layer of dust, like dried mud, that always covered them when they were found—the layer that made them look like clods, like stones. They were not quite translucent, yet the nucleus could be seen by one who knew just what internal hovering shadow to look for.
Zena picked one up and held it to the light. Monetae grunted, and she met his gaze.
“I was wondering which one you would pick up first,” he said. “That one’s very alive.” He took it from her and stared at it, narrowing his eyes. The bolt of hatred he aimed at it made Zena whimper. “Please don’t…”
“Sorry… but it screams so,” he said softly, and put it back with the others. “If I could only understand how they think,” he said. “I can hurt them. I can direct them. But I can’t talk to them. But some day I’ll find out…”
“Of course,” said Zena, watching his face. Was he going to have another of his furies? He was due for one…
He slumped into his chair, put his clasped hands between his knees and stretched. She could hear his shoulders crackle. “They dream,” he said, his organ voice dwindling to an intense whisper. “That’s as close to describing them as I’ve come yet. They dream.”
Zena waited.
“But their dreams live in our world—in our kind of reality. Their dreams are not thoughts and shadows, pictures and sounds like ours. They dream in flesh and sap, wood and bone and blood. And sometimes their dreams aren’t finished, and so I have a cat with two legs, and a
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